The rain is pounding on the black street, filling it with wide puddles; a stream running alongside the curb. Trash awaiting pick up under the tree, sagging in the water blown on to it. Where is the light? But dawn rises in the gray sky, as treetops sway in the autumn wind.  Meaning is hiding, until waterlogged gratitude lifts its head. The trees drink, the reservoirs fill, the flowers still holding on from summer nod approvingly in the breeze. Wind and rain are forces we turn our heads from. Yet these provisions keep safe the "taken for granted" on our tables and in our scope of beauty. From inside I see its value. When I'm standing in it, I just long to get away and take cover. Life's rain and wind--can they too be a form of Gods provision?